She confided in no one. There was no one to confide in. Not Beth. Certainly not James or Rory. Not even Fran – had she been available. John Lane? He wasn’t here either. Would she talk to him if he were here? Would she talk to him when she went home? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if the novel feeling of tentative optimism would survive the trip home.
Occasionally she saw James who, after the first few days, drove the seventy kilometres to and from Bunnaburra whenever possible. Occasionally there was a late-night phone call from Rory, sometimes after midnight. Should he join her? Why was Beth taking so long to recover? When was she coming home? Yes – Sean was all right!
Sundays, she didn’t go to Mass. She had an excuse. Her critically ill daughter needed her. Not good enough. Two weeks after she’d arrived, guilt accompanied her to the small suburban bluestone church a block from the beach. She arrived early, confessed the few venal sins needed to satisfy formality and joined the few worshippers in the pews. There was no choir, no organ and no youthful server ostentatiously preparing the starkly unadorned altar.
Precisely at eight a.m., the priest, a pink-faced white-haired old man, limped unheralded down the central aisle. The congregation stood. The attendants following, after placing the essential furnishings on the altar, moved to their place in an atmosphere so lacking in pomp and ceremony as to be almost puritanical.
The priest gravely ascended the single shallow step and took his place at the altar. Speaking with remarkable grace, he blessed his congregation and began the familiar ritual. Though sweet and even gentle, his voice was strong and secure. He used no microphone. He didn’t need to. Though he occasionally winced, he neither shirked the ceremony’s physical demands, nor attempted to disguise obvious pain. Though patently very frail, he seemed unafraid to expend himself or to deplete his limited energy.
His homily was a revelation, its message simple. But not simplistic – nowhere near simplistic. The world was in crisis, evil was rampant and inflexible men and women with smooth tongues and ruthless hearts were betraying men and women of goodwill. Meanwhile, numerous men and women of goodwill, not a few admirably loyal to the church, were confused and desperate. The church was in crisis, its youth legitimately bewildered and without hope. He should not be here. His place should already have been taken by young men, by married men, by women. So be it, he was here and they were not.
He continued. Such divisive concerns, while personally distressing, were background noise, convenient distractions; of the utmost gravity, yet still distractions. Distractions from what?
Consider – within the church, the voice of authority rejects the primacy of individual conscience.
Consider – individual conscience is the voice of the Spirit, the voice of God, speaking to the soul.
“And you,” the frail old man gently declared. “You need to hear from those of us who believe that God speaks to each of us in our conscience. You need to hear the voice of those of us who hold that the law of God is an internal matter.”
Arrogant! Not at all. He exuded acceptance and respect and even love. He was not preaching, not judging, not even attempting to persuade but simply stating a belief he strongly held, which he did not hold alone.
Heretical? How could it be? He’d just served Holy Communion. With not even the tiniest indication of insecurity or doubt, he seemed to be speaking specifically to each one of his meagre congregation. Some looked bored, a couple embarrassed, a few worried, a few engrossed – as she was. He was speaking to her heart! Was this the same man who’d earlier heard her banal confession? She’d never know.
The Mass ended as it had begun, quietly. Priest and attendants filed from the church, the congregation followed. One moment the church had been filled with the elderly priest’s unique radiance, the next it was empty.
The setting sun was burnishing the translucent sea, a mesmerising sight she tried to make time for every evening. After dinner, after the day at the hospital and before her evening visit, on the front verandah of the rundown guesthouse was the only place to be. She’d forgotten the sea’s constantly changing moods. Like the mountains, it was unpredictable, eternal, haunting and unsettling; constantly provocative, constant inspiration for thoughts too hazardous to probe. Because both mountains and sea defined human mortality, human impotence. Sitting on the front verandah every night she looked and she admired; she tried not to think.
Tonight she was finding contemplation comforting, intriguing, enticing, even challenging. The mountains reaching as far and as high as they would and the wide-spreading sea acknowledging no horizon. Both as indomitable as the frail priest’s vision of the human spirit. Why shouldn’t they invite her to new horizons? To hope?
If only she could learn from them. God’s creations, bound by God’s law, not man’s. They spoke to the heart, as the indomitable old man had spoken. Ordained a man of God, he rejected the imprisoning chains of manmade ritual, ritual for ritual’s sake, authority for authority’s sake. And rules – rulers because they could. Eat meat this Friday and choke on guilt. Eat meat next Friday, after the rulers have changed the rules and thrive. Marry a Protestant this year – not okay. Marry a Protestant after the rulers have changed the rules – okay. Divorce? Sin! How much money do you have? Annulment is okay. Contraception, protect your own life – not okay. Not yet. Change the rules.
“Mrs McClure?”
The interruption was unwelcome.
“How is your daughter today?” Victor Morris, a long-term boarder who worked in an inner-city office, was sleek, tanned, assured and middle-aged. He was also a capable athlete who spent hours swimming and sun baking at the beach across the road.
“Getting better.” She kept her attention on the sea. “Thank you.”
“Do you mind?” He indicated an empty chair.
“Not at all.”
“You come here every evening,” he commented.
“I live in the mountains.” Why bother with him? It wasn’t their first encounter.
“Would you rather not live in the mountains?” He was quick.
The sea view was going nowhere and courtesy cost nothing. She made an effort. “When I was younger we often went to the beach. It’s great when you’re young.”
“You’re not old!”
She did not respond.
“If I may?” Despite the question, he waited for no answer. “You seem so alone.”
“I enjoy being here alone.”
The sun dipped towards the horizon, vivid scarlet streaked the sky, a brilliant ribbon of colour stained the sea’s glassy surface.
“Hot again tomorrow.” He rose. “I’ll catch up tomorrow.”
Four weeks. Beth, slowly recuperating, talked about her children, her life with James. She was happy, fulfilled, grateful for this second chance at life. Sometimes they talked of Sean’s life, Rory’s business, the distance dividing them. Though less since Beth, released from pain, slept through many of the visiting hours.
Discovering the nurses’ unauthorised use of the patient’s mother, matron called a halt. Turning an authoritative ear against protests, matron suggested that if Mrs McClure truly wanted to be useful she register as a volunteer with Red Cross or some appropriate other charitable organisation.
Disappointed, she filled the lonely hours browsing through the city shops. As she’d already done in Roland she now did in Sydney, bought new books and fashionable clothes and took more care with her appearance. At Beth’s suggestion she had her hair restyled and tinted, sought advice on skin care and diet and make-up. She looked younger. She felt younger. Middle age was no longer so depressing. The mirror was telling her middle age didn’t have to be unattractive.
She telephoned Rory. “You’ll have to send more money. Beth still needs me.”
“If Beth needs you, of course.” He was torn. “Though I’m not so sure about more money. It’s costing a mint, Tess.”
“How’s Sean?”
“I told you – making out.”
“
He’s sick!”
“No! For God’s sake, Tess. Fran has everything under control. He’s not sick. He spends days off at the farm working with them. He prefers it to the store.”
Away from people. Bad news.
“Tess?”
“At least he’s with her family,” she reluctantly conceded. At this distance, she couldn’t argue.
“It’s not the same,” he admitted. “They spoil him.”
Sun setting, moon rising, red sea – silver sea.
Sometimes Vic joined her on the front verandah, more often not. He respected her wish for privacy, her desire to be alone. She needed anonymity, time to recuperate, time to be her self, whoever her self now was. She needed to try to confront facts too long ignored, to build a secure foundation on which to make decisions too long deferred.
“I won’t see you tomorrow, Mum. I’ll be off home early.” Beth, shuffling at her side, was escorting her to the hospital door.
“I’m so happy for you, love. It’s great news.”
“Six weeks! It’s been an eternity. I’ve missed the girls so much. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed my family.”
“They’ve missed you. James tells me they can’t wait for your arrival. I wish I could visit your home. Maybe another time. When you’re fit. Besides, it’s time I got back.”
“Dad’s been wonderful! You will tell him how grateful we are to him – letting you stay with me for so long.”
Letting her? An unspoken message? Was Beth pointedly suggesting she go home to dutifully accept wifely duties and man’s domination? Or not? Maybe Beth was trying to communicate the opposite? Maybe she was sarcastically expressing new-age disapproval of blind acceptance of man’s domination? Maybe in the last six weeks Beth had observed the woman her mother might have become. Might still become. Was Beth’s use of the words deliberate? She couldn’t be sure.
In comparison to her parents’ sheltered life, Beth had become a sophisticated city person. For all the closeness and the companionship of the last six weeks, she knew nothing of Beth’s interior life. What did she think? Did she ask the questions that needed asking? Had she used contraceptives? Did she even attend Mass regularly? There’d been too many years lost, lost to Sean, to Rory. They’d never been as she and Katherine had been. Untrue. Just as Beth didn’t confide in her, she’d never confided to Katherine Rory’s abuse or the depth of her own heartache, never cried with her as she’d wanted to.
They kissed. For a moment, Beth clung to her. “Thanks for coming, Mum.”
“It’s been good to be with you, love.”
“One day you’ll come to stay a while?”
“We’ll work something out,” she answered.
One day, maybe, Beth’s children would be permitted to meet their Uncle Sean.
Too late, far too late.
The taillights of the bus disappeared around the corner. Incoming surf whipped by screeching winds was rhythmically thunderous. Wagnerian.
She walked slowly, alone. Every priceless moment of this last night mourned the death of liberty. Every second, every millisecond, was to be savoured, cherished, memorised, stored for future recollection, nursed for future sanity. She had dreamed dreams which must end.
Across the road the guesthouse, cheap lights palely glowing in the gloom; people, talk, commitment. Not yet, not tonight. She walked past it, she wasn’t hungry. The low full moon, quickly climbing, etched its path across the churning sea. She turned away from the street and the lights, from commitment. One final prolonged walk along the beach, shoes sinking into wet sand, jacket open to flying spray. When again – if ever?
A high wave, suddenly billowing, suddenly receding, tugged her seawards. She turned back. Across the road, unrecognised lights beckoned. She’d walked aimlessly. Which way was the guesthouse? Disoriented, she paused. A shadow slipped across the sand – an animal, a man, imagination. She hurried from the beach. Which way?
To the right, distantly, traffic was thick. Turning her back to the howling wind, she turned left, comforted by increasing familiarity. The guesthouse couldn’t be far. A shadow crossed the path ahead and another. Not imagination. People.
She stopped. Angry young voices, shrieking above the wind, were arguing. Frightened, she shrank into a recessed gateway. The voices rose, the shadows closed in. Hooded heads and thick coats, screaming abuse, fought a running battle. Under a street lamp, knives glinted. She dared not move.
The battle intensified until, from the distant highway, screaming sirens promised relief.
“Police!” The figures scattered and raced, unseeing, past her.
Police cars and paddy wagons, headlights blazing, circled and stopped. Armed police, shouting, rounded up the shadows; no longer shadows. Young men. Young hostile faces captured in the merciless glare.
Shaking, she left her shelter.
“What the hell!” A torch flashed into her face.
Recoiling, she covered her eyes.
“Did they hurt you, Missus?”
She shook her head.
“You sure?”
“I…” She must talk. She must not be trapped here. “I was walking on the beach.”
“On a night like this!”
She managed a halting explanation and was escorted safely to the guesthouse. Vic Morris, leaving his post on the front verandah, took over from the police.
“Didn’t anyone warn you about lonely city beaches?” He wrapped his coat around her shoulders, led her inside.
She was shaking.
“First floor?” He steadied her up the steep stairs. “Your key?”
She fumbled with her handbag.
“Do you mind?” He took the handbag, located the key, unlocked the door, switched on the light, settled her into the single wooden chair. “Hang on. I’ll be back.”
He returned, bottle and glass in hand. “Whisky. Strong and straight.”
She pushed it away.
“It’ll help.” He held the glass to her lips.
She sipped, choked, felt the sting of alcohol in her mouth, felt it slip smoothly down.
“Are you sure they didn’t touch you? Should I phone someone for you?”
“Th…thank you. I…I can’t stop shaking…”
“A doctor?”
“No…”
She reached for the whisky.
“Careful! You’re not used to it!”
“Thank God they didn’t see me.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?”
She shook her head.
“If you’re sure?” Doubtful, he made for the door.
“Wait!”
“There’s a doctor…”
“No doctor.” She gulped the whisky.
“Take it easy on that stuff,” he warned. “I didn’t see you at dinner. Have you eaten? Can I get them to send up something?”
“No…thank you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?”
“There’s no one to call. My daughter’s gone home.” She struggled fruitlessly to remove the jacket. “I’m off tomorrow.”
He eased the jacket off. “You need something to eat. Get changed. I’ll be back.”
Still unsteady, she awkwardly changed into blouse and slacks and sandals. She’d been a fool. Walking the beach at night was stupid. Walking at night was stupid. It hadn’t used to be.
He returned carrying a tray with sandwiches and a pot of coffee. “Get this into you, Tess. It’ll do you good.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being a nuisance. Thank you.”
“As long as you’re okay.” He set the tray on the dressing table. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”
“There’s plenty for two.” She felt the heat rise to her face. “Unless you’d rather not stay?”
He cocked his handsome head to one side. “It’s the whisky talking.”
“It may well be,” she took his hand. “Please stay. It’s my last night.”
He frowned but did not
free his hand. “I should…”
“Please,” she pressed. “It may be my last free night for the rest of my whole life.”
“Tess…” He locked the door. “Tess – think…”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He bent to her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Tess McClure.”
“Shhh – shhh…”
Chapter Sixteen
The plane thrust upwards into the headwind, circled the harbour and left the city behind low, scudding clouds.
She unbuckled the seatbelt. She should feel tired. She should feel guilty. She felt neither tired nor guilty. She felt the incredible wonder of discovery. She felt joy!
A grandmother, she’d never ever before known sexual fulfilment. She felt purified. The festering wound of the long-ago wedding night was finally, incredibly, healed. Why should she feel guilt? Or even sadness? A door had opened. And closed. Vic Morris had left her room with the first faint light of dawn. She would never see him again. It was as it should be.
An hour to Tullamarine Airport. Rory waiting, a thin grey man, ludicrously austere in his Sunday suit. Until last night, she’d had no idea of the actual cost of the honeymoon night; the cost to them both. Last night, in a few hours only, she’d finally learned what today’s young people knew – the ugly truth of the potential cost of blind obedience to the rigid rule of pre-marital celibacy. Vic Morris, an unlikely one-night stand, had freed her. Who would free Rory? Or was it too late? He wore the hair shirt of guilt with defiance, even comfort. She must not feel pity. She strode to meet him.
“Tess…” He kissed her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“You look…?”
“It’s the new clothes. I warned you.”
“Your hair – what have you done to your hair?”
“It cost a mint.” Not the answer he wanted.
Across the city, through the spreading suburbs, out into the foothills, threading undulating roadways into the ambiguous mini mountains; haven and prison, shelter and suffocation. What would they be now?
Autumn Music Page 25